50 Minute Hour
by Pinkie Tuscadaro
Summary: Craig goes to see a therapist becasue Joey makes him do it, and things come up. Season 2.
1. Chapter 1

This was Joey's stupid idea. I was sitting in this therapists office, sitting in this green pleather chair with wooden arm rests. He was behind the desk. He had a narrow face and he wore a casual suit, like one of those people that used to go around selling Bibles or something.

"I don't want to talk abut this," I said. He'd asked about my father. What was the good in talking about this?

"Craig, you have a complicated relationship with your dad, it might help to talk about it," he said, looking at me with this sympathy that made me want to puke.

"How is talking about it going to help?" I said, and he just looked at me.

"It will help you to work through it-"

"How? By bringing it all up again? Talking about it is like reliving it. Why would I want to do that?" He had no answer. They never did. I knew Joey was sort of trying to help but what no one realized was that they couldn't help. There was no way to help.

"Okay. We don't have to talk about your father. How about Joey?" He had all these little nick nacks on his desk, little figurines and tiny sand trays and those five hanging balls that could click together. I stared at all that stuff. It was easier than looking at him.

"What about Joey?" I said, and I wished my time here was up. This is what sucked about being 14. Other people get to tell you what you have to do.

"How do you like living with him? How are things between the two of you? Any problems?" He said all this stuff and then leaned back and patiently waited for me to respond. And I thought about it. Joey. Well, he didn't beat the shit out me like my dad did, so that was a good thing. And he was less serious. You could fuck up and Joey wasn't going to look at you like it was the end of the world. I didn't have that wound up tight feeling, that feeling like I could hardly breathe. I didn't feel like that around Joey.

"Things are fine," I said. I just didn't want to talk to this guy. Tell him my deep dark secrets. Like, I couldn't tell him that I thought my mom left because of me, and now that she was dead and I was older and sort of realized she left because of my dad I couldn't shake the earlier belief. And I couldn't shake the belief that if I'd been a better kid and not such a terrible kid my dad wouldn't have hit me. And I couldn't tell him that me staying at Joey's was only temporary and that I'd go back with my dad and probably nothing would change. Oh, he'd probably be good for awhile. But old patterns would resurface, I knew they would. So it was just a matter of time before I'd be right back where I started. And I couldn't tell him that I felt like an outsider at Joey's, like I just stayed at some guy's house. He was Angie's father but he was my dead mother's husband. That was it. I wanted the connection to be deeper but it wasn't. I knew I didn't really belong with them. I was like a refugee from some bloody war torn country, and they were sheltering me. And that sucked.

"Do you ever think Joey could hurt you?" he said. Crafty little question. I hated these guys.

"No. Hurt me like hit me? No. Joey wouldn't do that," There. Maybe that answered his question. I glanced at the clock, wondering where we were in our 50 minute hour. Not far enough.

"How about Angela?" he said, and I didn't quite get what he meant.

"What about Angela? Joey would never hurt her, of course not. Look, I'm not crazy. It was my dad. He hurt me, not Joey. I know that. I'm not generalizing it to all parental figures or father figures or authority figures or whatever. Okay?" He just nodded. Mild mannered. Like Clark Kent. But these guys didn't fool me. They were superman somewhere underneath. They knew what to say to get a reaction. All that voodoo psychology that they studied. And damn him, now I thought of how I did fear Joey. If I screwed up somehow and I knew whatever it was would make my dad angry, I'd be all nervous until I was sure that Joey wouldn't have the same reaction. And sudden movements from almost anyone had me flinch away, I was all jumpy. Even when my dad wasn't around, and I knew it was some kind of animal conditioning. Sudden movements at my dad's house resulted in pain and fear. Beatings. So I had generalized it to any and all sudden movements despite knowing if my fucking father wasn't around I'd probably be okay. So that sucked, too. Damn Joey for making me come and see this guy.


	2. Chapter 2

Back again. Once a week I came here to this small office in this big building to talk about my fucked up life. The guy was wearing a different suit but it was so similar to the one from last week. They were all similar. Like a uniform.

"What do you want to talk about, Craig?" he said, leaning back in his chair, a slight smile on his face. I closed my eyes. I was gonna tell Joey again that I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to come here.

"Nothing. Look, I'm sorry, but I don't, I just don't have anything to say,"

This didn't faze these guys. They figured it all into their weird psychiatry crap. Like some tip of the iceberg thing. The subconscious. They didn't mind silence and they didn't mind time. They thought it would all come out in the end.

"Okay. How are things going now?" he said, his hands folded in his lap. What a job. Sitting in this cozy little office listening to people ramble on all day.

"Now? Things are fine," I said. Out the window was this tree, a twisty kind of tree with red leaves. I looked at this tree and not at this guy.

I wasn't giving him anything, I knew. But what did he want me to do? Describe in detail every single beating? Tell him exactly how I felt when the train was barreling down at me? Tell him how I felt when I was at my mother's gravestone that night, tracing her name with my finger? Well, I couldn't. I couldn't do that.

"How do you get along with your sister?" he said, and I smiled a little.

"Good. Great. We get along great,"

I thought about Ang, and how it was funny that we really did get along so well. I've seen my friends with their siblings and how they don't really get along, not all the time. Some of them not at all. Maybe it was because I never lived with her before. I lived with my dad when she was born. Then when mom died she became this link to her for me, sort of like a living ghost. That doesn't sound too good but I don't mean it in a bad way. I feel closer to my mother when she's around. So I couldn't yell at her or tell her to leave me alone or deny her anything that she asks because, because she's all that's left of my mom.

"And Joey? Do you get along great with him as well?"

"Yeah,"

This sucked. All these questions. Yeah I got along fine with Joey. Alright? No, I didn't think he was gonna hit me or anything, not really. And I wasn't jealous of Angie for having him as her father, I wasn't jealous that she never had to put up with stuff. Stuff I had to put up with. It was fine. It was all fine. And I didn't still think of killing myself or running away or any of that shit. I was completely fine. Couldn't Joey see that?

"So the basic plan is for your father to get some help, possibly in the way of anger management, and then you're going to move back in with him. Right?" he said. I nodded, swallowed hard. Yep, that was the plan.

"So, Craig, how do you feel about that?" He sat up, leaned slightly forward. Outside I noticed the wind ruffling the red leaves on the twisty tree.

"It's fine," I said.

"You think it will work out?" He was pressuring me. Badgering me. I sighed. Tapped my nails on the armrest of the chair. It would work out. It had to, didn't it?


	3. Chapter 3

I didn't like this expectation that I had to talk to this guy. He was getting paid for this, he didn't really care. One fucked up kid was just like the next. All these case studies. Aughh, this sucked. I was gonna tell Joey I didn't want to come here anymore, that I was really fine.

"Let's talk about your father," he said. Always back to that. And always I didn't want to. What did he want me to say?

I sighed, fidgeted in the seat, looked out the window.

"It must be a little confusing having two fathers," he said. Two fathers. Joey and Albert. Well, they were different, I had to give them that. Joey was funny. That always kind of surprised me. Like when he got that stupid fedora hat from the closet when I was going to the 80's dance. He's all like, 'this is hip and cool,' That stupid hat. But it was funny. And his goofy smile made me feel good. My dad didn't have a goofy smile and he never joked, not really. He did say mean sarcastic things from time to time, and it was funny in a way. It was funny like comedians tearing down some politician or making fun of has been celebrities. It was funny but it was mean. Joey didn't have that meanness.

"Well, they're different," I said. This mild mannered little therapist guy with his sleepy eyes. But I knew how their brains ticked away and added up everything you said. I wondered what he had me diagnosed with.

"Different how?" he said. I sighed again. 50 goddamn minutes. I might as well say something.

"Well, Joey's funnier and my dad's all serious all the time,"

"What's something you like about your father?" he said. He was wearing this sweater vest over a white dress shirt, a more casual look. I swallowed hard. Thought about it. Something I liked about my father?

"I don't know. Things are predictable, I guess. Like, I mean, the house is always clean and supper is at the same time and, as far as schedules go, there aren't many surprises," This was something I preferred, maybe because I was used to it. I couldn't believe the mess Angie could make, all her toys and coloring books and crayons everywhere, like her room exploded over the living room. And dishes would pile up and Joey would leave them there sometimes, then do them for hours on Saturday or Sunday morning. And supper was always this guessing game, a last minute pizza or we'd go to some Chinese place or something. It wasn't bad, I wasn't saying that. It was even cool, sometimes. It just wasn't what I was used to.

But then there was the reverse of that, the predictable thing. Joey was predictable in that he never got all that upset. He'd yell, sometimes, but I'd get the feeling that he was yelling because he was "parenting" and not that he really meant it. Like with Angie and her mess, he'd yell at her to clean it up but then he'd turn away from her and I'd see the smile and the shake of his head. He wasn't really angry, he just wanted her to clean it up. But with my dad, he was unpredictable in that I never really knew what would piss him off. One thing would piss him off one day but not the next, and when he did get angry it was real anger. It was rage. It was this uncontrollable thing and it was frightening. When he was beating me I knew, I knew he was so far out of control that he couldn't stop.

"How about Joey?" he said. I was sort of jerked out of my thoughts.

"What about Joey?" I said.

"What's something you like about him?"

"I like that he doesn't get angry," I said it fast. I didn't want to go there. These therapists, man. They were tricky. I hated being tricked.

"Joey doesn't get angry but your dad does?" he said, the classic playing dumb question. Now he was making me angry.

"Yeah, of course. I don't live with my dad anymore because he gets so angry and he, he just gets out of control. So yeah, of course he gets angry," I thought that was a given.


	4. Chapter 4

Sitting in this chair with its fake leather, probably fake wood, too. I didn't like these stuffy offices, these therapists staring at me from across their desks. I didn't like feeling like I was being forced to talk.

"How are things going, Craig?" he said in his bland voice, slight smile on his face. I bet he didn't care about this, I was just another 50 minutes of work to him. Just a paycheck. This is stupid, this whole therapy thing.

"Good,"

"How's school?" he said, and I sighed. School, home, my dad, Joey. Why did he have to try and dissect my life?

"School's okay," I said, feeling the fake leather of the chair with my palm.

"Just okay? Are you doing okay in your classes?"

I blinked, thinking about science. I really wasn't doing that great in science. It wasn't my subject. I'd rather be in art class or taking pictures. I didn't want to memorize a list of boring facts on something I didn't care about anyway. And there was always the thing about science, the thing like my dad was really good at it. Not being good at science was a way to distance myself from him.

"Yeah, I'm doing fine,"

Quiet. He'd let the silence spin out and I was fine with that. I looked out the window.

"How are things going with your friends?" he said, and I leaned my head on my hand, yawned.

"Good,"

He licked his lips, tapped a pencil on the desktop. I was frustrating him but I couldn't help it. I didn't want to be here. I knew what this was all about. It was Joey and everybody else thinking I was all screwed up because of what my dad did and all of that. So maybe they were right. I felt it a lot of the time, I felt screwed up. I couldn't concentrate on shit like I wanted to, so maybe that was another part of why I sucked in science. That class took a degree of concentration that I just didn't have. But what did they want me to do? Talk about it and talk about it? How would that help?

"What happened that day you ran away from your father's house?" he said, and this question kind of surprised me. Up until now the guy had asked vague, leading questions. They hadn't worked. I guess he was changing tacts. And 'my father's house'? I guess that was one way of differentiating it from Joey's house. But where was my house?

"What happened? What do you mean?" I said, narrowing my eyes at him. I could see the watch he wore, the kind that had the metal stretchy band. Light reflected off the whole thing.

"I mean, what happened that day?"

I closed my eyes for a second. That day kind of sucked. It really sucked. And this was one way to get me to talk. Oh, fuck it. I'd tell him. If he wanted to know so badly I'd tell him. It was getting hard not talking, defending my right to have these things be my own. Everyone wanted a piece of it. Him, Joey, Ashley. So fine. Whatever.

"In the morning I stared in the mirror at the cuts and bruises on my chest and stomach from my dad kicking the shit out of me the night before. I felt so hurt that morning, like I could barely move. And when I saw that in the mirror, it just looked unbelievable. Like, I'm this beaten pathetic kid, you know? Because I usually didn't think of myself like that. I was, well my dad was kinda rich, and I just didn't usually see it so clear. But that morning, the sun shining in the room, all those cuts and bruises were pretty clear,"


	5. Chapter 5

I closed my eyes, and remembered that morning in my bedroom, all sunny. That harsh light of day. The bruises looked stark, starker than usual. Worse than usual. That morning, staring in the mirror, I got fed up in this way that I never had before. It was new. It was this feeling that enough is enough.

I kept my eyes closed and kept talking. I was mad that I was talking about this. I didn't want to. It wasn't fair.

"So I could tell my dad was sorry about what he did, I could tell because he was acting kind of nice. On the way to school he offered me all this money to buy a new camera. He broke my other one, and it was real nice, too. It was a Nikon. But when I saw all that money I thought I could go somewhere, I could take off. I felt like I had to get out. I had to leave. I wanted to go to British Columbia because I had gone there once with my mom and Joey and Angie when she was a little baby. It was great. It was warm, it was so nice, I felt so happy when we were there, so that was where I'd go,"

I stopped talking, and I didn't open my eyes, either. What did I think was going to happen? How would I survive in British Columbia with a couple of hundred dollars? I knew how fast money went. A hotel, a couple of meals, and the money would be gone. And I'd be out on the streets, just like Sean said. And then what?

I opened my eyes again and looked around. There was the counselor, sitting with that half smile on his face. And here I was, rehashing old memories. For what? I could feel myself getting upset all over again. The plans changed so rapidly that day. I was gonna just take off, by myself, after school. Then Emma invites me to hang out with her and Ang, and then I wanted to take Angie with me. That was crazy. I mean, what was I thinking? That wouldn't have been good for her, or Joey. The only one that would have been good for was me. But Joey stopped it, and I was so far gone at that point. So far gone. Lying, covering up, covering up everything. Things were just starting to slip at that point.

"Look, I just, I don't want to really talk about it. I don't see the point,"

He leaned back, crossed one leg over the other. I could see the dust motes flashing in the bar of sun. I closed my eyes for just longer than a blink. I was getting a headache.

"That's fine," he said, "what do you want to talk about?"

Nothing. There was nothing I wanted to talk about. Joey was wasting his money with this whole therapy thing. I pressed my lips together. Maybe I just felt like I couldn't be helped.

"I don't know. How about something not so serious?" I said.

"Sure,"

Still, I didn't say anything. I didn't want to just ramble on about nothing, because he'd read something into that. I hated being here, being tricked, being forced to talk, to think about stuff I just wanted to forget. Why couldn't I forget, just for a little while? Forgetting could be nice. It all sucked, the whole thing with my mother dying and my dad being, well, I don't know. Being the way he was, I guess. It sucked. I was sick of talking about it and sick of thinking about it. Why couldn't anyone else see this?

"Do you do anything extra at school, like sports?" he said, and I almost laughed. Sports? I wasn't that great at sports. It was fun, sometimes, to play some sport with my friends. But not in the more serious school team way. I didn't want to do that.

"No, nothing really,"

"Maybe you should," he said, and I just stopped myself from rolling my eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Same chair, same window, same day of the week. Would this ever end? I kind of thought it would never end.

I shifted my weight in the seat, stared out the window, tapped my nails on the wooden armrest. Bored. But it wasn't exactly boredom. I was trying to ignore the whole point of this thing. I was trying to ignore the fact that I was screwed up and I needed therapy. I didn't want to be that screwed up kid. I just wanted to be normal. I wanted to pretend that none of it had ever happened. What was wrong with that?

"Craig, have you given any thought to what it will be like when you move back in with your father?" he said in his calm therapist's voice. Great. He was going for the jugular.

"Not really," I said.

"Well, what do you think it will be like?"

I sighed. Maybe if I talked a little more I could stop going here, since Joey never seemed to agree with me that I didn't need it. It was like eating vegetables, the real gross ones like Brussels sprouts or turnips, they were good for you but hard to get down.

I closed my eyes, felt the warmth from the sun coming through the window. This was so annoying.

"Uh, I think he'll be nice at first, trying to not lose his temper and everything, and then, I don't know," I said.

"You don't know what?" he said.

"I don't know! He'll lose his temper, things will be the same, because maybe he can't change, maybe nobody can," I glared at him.

"You don't think people can change?"

"Sort of. I don't know. Maybe I don't think he can change, because, because, well, if he could, why didn't he change already? Why didn't he, since he knew things were bad, and he knew that it was all screwed up, so why didn't he change before he practically killed me?"

"Maybe he needs help to change," he said. I nodded.

"Yeah, maybe," I said.

"So are you afraid of going back to living with your father?"

I hadn't really been thinking about it. It wasn't like I even knew when it would be happening, and I'd just moved out of there. I didn't give much thought to moving back.

"Afraid? I don't know. I guess, I mean, it'll be weird. He's gonna change, but I might, too. I'm already different. I do things and say things at Joey's house that I never would have at my house. Like, I never had people come over when I lived with my dad, because I couldn't. It was too unpredictable. But at Joey's it's no big deal. So when I go back am I going to have to change that? Or will my dad be okay with it, and I won't have to worry anymore? I just don't know,"

"You've spoken a bit about his anger, your dad's, but what about yours?" he said. I blinked. Mine?

"My what?" I said.

"Your anger. You must be angry, too," he said, and I had to admit, at least to myself, that he was right. I was beyond angry. It was like this, I don't know. This rage filled creature that was inside of me, and I'd see red. I'd slam doors and throw things and clench my fists and it tensed every muscle and I really felt like I could kill someone. At those times, when I was so pissed off over whatever it was, I thought that it was probably how my dad had felt. It was scary.


	7. Chapter 7

I didn't know about this stuff. What good was it to keep talking about it all the time? Maybe if I just told him all about it once and for all I wouldn't have to come back. Maybe that would make him and Joey happy. I'd just sick it all up.

"Alright, I'll tell you," I said, tapping my nails on the wooden armrest of the chair I was sitting in. I saw the sunlight as it angled into the room, fell on the rug in squares.

"Tell me what?" he said, his eyebrows raised.

"I'll tell you it, about my dad and everything that happened, okay? I'll just tell you everything, and then you can see that I'm all screwed up,"

He didn't say anything like all good therapists, he had learned how to use "silence" that tricky technique. I closed my eyes and started talking, and this pissed me off. I was mad at Joey for making me come here. I wanted to keep all these things inside and I thought it was my right to do that if I wanted to. They were my experiences and I didn't feel like talking about them.

"Sometimes things were okay, you know? My dad was cool, and nice, and he'd buy me things and take me out to dinner or he'd order Chinese food and we'd rent movies or something, and it was fine, but there was always an edge to him. There was always this anger and tension whether it was directed at me or not, it was there, below the surface. I thought it had to do with his job, he was all stressed out. I could see that, plus he told me he was stressed out. I thought it had to do with my mother leaving him, leaving us, and there wasn't much I could do about that. He hadn't been that great to her, either. They would fight, they used to fight, it was awful. He'd hit her, too, so she should have known he was hitting me. She did know. So I don't really know why she left me with him, but it probably had to do with how much money he had and she couldn't fight him over me, she'd lose and maybe not get to see me at all. Oh, he was in control alright. So maybe my mother just kind of hoped that things were okay for me, and kind of lied to herself and convinced herself that they were, because there was nothing she could do if they weren't,"

He was just looking at me, just gazing over at me while I talked. I took a deep breath and continued.

"So I was pissed off at my mother for leaving me with him, with my father. But it was hard to stay angry with her when she got so sick. She had cancer. But I was still angry and then I felt guilty since she was dying, and I suppressed all that anger toward her, and she's dead now. It still really hurts, I miss her so much. I can't believe she's dead. She could have fought harder, she had all this stuff to live for, me and Angie and Joey. So I'm angry with her for leaving me with my dad and I'm angry with her for dying, and I'm angry with my dad for hitting me and hurting me so much. It wasn't just that, though. He called me names, well, not names, but he said what a screw up I was and there was all this tension and worry on top of the threat of getting strapped and hit and kicked. I'd go to school and hang out with my friends and I'd pretend to be normal, just an average kid like them with normal parents, or parent. I pretended to the point of believing that my dad didn't ever hit me and nothing was wrong so when I did get hit it came as a surprise, it went against the fantasy world of everything being okay. There was no way to escape when I wasn't even really admitting that there was a problem,"

I looked over at him, anger blazing in my eyes at being forced to talk, to relive it, to see it all again. He was a jerk and so was Joey.

"Being strapped with his belt was the worst, I think. It hurt so much, and left marks on my back and legs, it was this stinging pain and I'd cry every time, just due to the pain. Otherwise I didn't really cry anymore. I hadn't cried unless I was being beaten in years. Something was becoming dead, it was some kind of dulling of my emotions. It was harder and harder to pretend to be normal with my friends and at school. I was falling asleep in school, my grades were slipping, I was anxious and jumpy and I'd flinch away from sudden movements, I was a mess. I knew it. I could feel it. That's when things started getting…worse. I couldn't pretend that things were fine. I couldn't believe that things would change. And the time between the beatings was becoming less and less. It used to be like once every few months, then once a month, then twice a month, more and more, until it was every week, and old bruises hardly had time to heal before there were new ones over those, and I felt that deep ache everyday. It would hurt to lift my arms and to wash my hair and everything hurt, all the time. Everything hurt,"


End file.
